Courage, Dear Heart

Be not afraid, my Dove, the ancient
hawk

Has had his talons gloved, his
wingtips trimmed,

The putrid wings, with feathers
full of death.

He sits upon his perch, these
days, with rattling breath

And calls across the desert he
lately skimmed

In petulant rage. Impotent. Empty
squawk.

 

And you, my Dove, my gentle
little one,

Hidden in the rocks for far too
long,

Must trust your wings. Never mind
your fears

And plucked out feathers, and
rivers of dried up tears.

You may not sit and mourn. Get up!
Be strong

With wings made whole, and glide
beneath the sun.

3 Comments

What do you think? Join the discussion.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s